


Strange What Desire Will Make (Foolish) People Do

by Idril



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, BAMF John, First Kiss, First Time, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Missing Scene, Mycroft doesn't understand sentiment, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Reichenbach Feels, Reichenbach Fix-It, Sherlock Loves John, Sherlock does, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-05 13:38:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1820335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idril/pseuds/Idril
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock knows what people do when they know they're going to die.  He also knows what people who are motivated will do to live.  Anything and everything.  John knows that he never asked Sherlock to save him.</p><p>Chapter 1 can stand alone as a missing scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my own work, no betas. All mistakes are mine, and any comments or concrit is welcome! Enjoy!

Sherlock knows what people do when they know they're going to die.  He's seen it before. Deduced it.  As soon as someone realizes death is imminent, they stop trying to fight against it.  Instead, they seem to revert wholly to sentimentality.  They are almost always found dead in a place they know- their own home, their lover's home, locked in their bedroom with a gun in their hand. They clearly are not trying to run, but instead seem to seek out comfort and familiarity, a safe-house in which to stand ground.  Any killer would look to these places first. So why do they do it?

Of course, Sherlock knows.  It’s the reason why, now a mere eight hours before his own death (“death” he hopes, the quotations uncertain in his mind), he is at 221B Baker Street, standing before the door, hesitating. Once he goes in, he will not leave until he goes to meet Moriarty in the morning.  Technically, it's already morning.  He has done everything he could possibly do to stay his execution.  Has developed 13 different plans for all the scenarios he could conjure.  Has even put faith in his brother, which he would not have done, if not for the most important variable that was being risked tomorrow.  It was not so much his faith that he was trusting his brother with, but something much more important. There is nothing left to do now but wait. Wait, and succumb to sentimentality.

He walks into the flat, ducks right past the police tape.  His home is now a crime scene.  Soon, Anderson will be here, gleefully shuffling through all his possessions, looking for something he will never find. He knows they won't come back here looking for him tonight.  Who in their right mind would return to their own flat when on the run? Only John and Sherlock, who, it is easy to say, are not in their right minds.

After the encounter with "Richard Brooke", John had been angry.  He had been confused, hurt, frustrated, but mostly angry.  Sherlock could tell, from John’s eyes and posture, that John was trying not to believe.  Or, perhaps, to believe.  To believe in Sherlock. How could John doubt him?  Years of working and living together, all questioned because of a five minute conversation with a criminal mastermind?  Everything he thought he had with John- was it all in his mind? Imagined? He was to find out tonight, for he could not face death (“death”) tomorrow knowing that John thought he was a fraud.  

As Sherlock entered the flat, he took the time to look around.  Didn’t see any signs of struggle or forced entry, so he was probably safe.  John’s coat on the rack- he was here, then. Even knowing he may never see this place again, Sherlock felt no pull of sadness or regret. No nostalgia to sit in his chair one last time, to make himself one last cup of tea (though he couldn’t remember the last time he made tea).  He knew what he was doing, at least where Moriarty was concerned.  What he was doing now, he had no clue.  He knew what he wanted to do, of course.  What something unacknowledged, deep inside him, was pushing him to do.  He was about to change things forever, with John, tonight. Even before they would be forced to change tomorrow.  

But, just like those men he found murdered in their own home, he let his sentiment and his emotions rule over any logical thought.  These were his last 8 hours in London- if not forever, then for a long time- and he was going to take them for himself.  He never claimed to be a selfless person, though maybe this wasn’t a selfish act.  It seemed more like a selfish, masochistic act, if he was honest.  Why put himself through this, when it was only to last for a finite amount of time?  Why let sentimentality rule now, of all times, when he had kept it at bay his entire life?

He didn’t have that answer.  Sherlock felt thin and weighted down.  He wanted to indulge, divulge.  The burden of Moriarty, of having everything he ever worked to create be pulled apart like a loose thread in a jumper, he felt in his soul.  His heart, which he did not know he even had until he felt its frantic pulse in a pool so long ago (was it long? He can’t even remember, though it seems like every moment has been leading to this one now, and all he has to do is have the courage to grasp it for himself, one last selfish act of a selfish man) felt like a leaden weight inside his body.

Sherlock ascended the steps to John’s bedroom, and with each step he felt less tall, less confident, and more like a man at the end of a marathon, slowly running out of energy and will. He had taken care of everything that needed doing. Now, it was just the loose ends. He opened the door, not bothering to dampen his footfalls or turn the knob quietly.  He heard the metal grinding inside the doorknob, and John was up fast, his hand reaching under the pillow to pull out his gun.  Sherlock raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

“Christ,” John sighed, sitting straight-backed in the bed, legs thrown over the side. “I could have killed you, Sherlock! What the bloody hell are you doing here?”  Then, brow furrowing, he noticed Sherlock’s stature. “Are you hurt?  What’s happened?”

Sherlock did not answer. Instead, surrounded by dark and quiet, he walked over to the bedside. He watched as John slowly lowered the gun, but did not relax.  Instead, he reached out to Sherlock, touching his arm, repeating, “What’s happened? Sherlock, what is it?”

Now that he was here, and it was the moment, the words were tripping around inside his head. What was it he meant to say?  I’m afraid I’m going to die tomorrow, and I need to tell you that you are my heart, and I refuse to let you burn.  Sherlock could not speak, and instead fell to his knees before John. They faced each other, in the dark, and John brought his hand up to Sherlock’s face, touching gently at his hairline, his neck, looking for injuries or a fever or some physical harm to explain the silence and defeat in Sherlock’s posture.

"Sherlock, you're scaring me."

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said, too loud for the stillness of the room. Get it together, he chastised. John needs to believe you tomorrow, this can’t seem like a goodbye.  But with every blink, every breath, Sherlock felt the goodbye in his body, coming out in desperation through his pores. Sherlock removed John’s hand from his face, placed it on the bed. He catalogued the feel of the skin.  “John,” he began, but again found the words to have escaped him.

No need, though, for it was John who saved him.  Like always. “I believe you, Sherlock. Moriarty, Richard Brooke- he’s lying. Of course, he is. Whatever you may be, you’re not a criminal, a murderer. I know you, Sherlock.  I know you. I should never have doubted you.  I didn’t really, I was just--We’ll find a way out of this. It’s going to be fine.  Sherlock?”

Sherlock found that he was shaking his head.  He was a criminal.  A criminal, a man with no morals, a man who hurt those around him knowingly, who took things he had no right to take.  He was going to do it now, tonight, to John.  Because there was no way that Sherlock was going to die (“die”- with quotations, dammit) without spending his last night with John. The Woman had asked him, once, if he would "have dinner" with her, if it was his last night on earth. All he had felt, then, was the game, the need to best her and win. He couldn't imagine what he would do on his last night on earth.  Now, though, he had his answer.  And he knew that, in the morning, it would only make things worse.  It would hurt more than falling, more than dying, because it would hurt John, too.

But knowing that John believed in him lifted part of the weight.  The weight in his heart was still threatening to pull him under, but his head was clearer now.

No matter what Sherlock was or wasn’t, he knew John Watson.  And now, in John’s face, he finally allowed himself see everything, everything, laid bare before him.  He could see that this man believed in him, loved him, wanted him, wanted everything with him, the same way Sherlock wanted it with John.  It took his breath away.  They were still facing each other, and Sherlock was still eerily silent and too-serious. John’s breathing evened out, and his eyes flicked down to Sherlock’s lips, and Sherlock found himself mirroring the gesture.

Then, slowly, as if the stillness around them forced them into slow motion, John was leaning towards him and Sherlock was suddenly moved to action. This was his step to take, not John’s. He crashed into John, miscalculating the distance in the dark and in his desperation. John gasped, “Christ”, but gripped onto the lapel of Sherlock’s coat with all his strength.  The kiss was closed-mouth, just smashed lips, smashed faces, bodies pressed together as much as possible with Sherlock kneeling on the floor beside John’s denim-clad legs.

When they broke apart, the look in John’s eyes held confusion and fear, and Sherlock’s heart stopped. Had he read it wrong? He saw John’s eyes scan his face, flick over his body again (ah, still doesn’t believe I’m not injured), until they finally settled on Sherlock’s eyes.  He felt John’s gaze, intent, reading him, and then John spoke, his voice loud and commanding in the stillness.

“What’s happened, Sherlock?  Something has happened, and you’re not telling me. Tell me!” John slammed his hand down on the bed, and the sudden violence of it made Sherlock flinch. John knew him too well, he was acting out of character and John knew it. He had to do better.

He tried to lean in, and kiss John again, to distract, but John pulled away.

“No, Sherlock.  Tell me what is going on.  Why now?” he asked, voice softening. “Why tonight of all nights?  This is not exactly a good time."

“John,” he began, and he found that this time, he had too many words, too many things to say. Why tonight? Why not? Why not every night? Why hadn’t this been every night, since John had moved in, since he shot the cabbie, since “run, Sherlock!” and “people will talk”? How many nights could they have had?

“John, please,” Sherlock sighed, and managed to land another kiss on John’s lips. He closed his eyes, this time, and just let himself feel.  John’s lips against his, the roughness of his unshaven face, the gentle touch of his tongue on Sherlock’s lips.  And Sherlock opened to him, of course he did.  Tonight, he was holding nothing back.  Everything and anything John wanted, he could take tonight, and Sherlock would memorize every detail and put it in a special room in his mind, and lock it up and keep it safe. And John would have this night, too, to remember him by. The thought brought a moan to his lips, at the thought that this would be the memory that John would hold on to, also, and it was a painful sound, and John grabbed him around the arms and hauled him off his knees, sideways onto the bed, coat getting tangled in John’s fingers as he tried to remove it desperately.

“Sherlock,” John whispered, “Please, Sherlock, tell me.”

“John,” he groaned. He hoped he could conceal his desperation for John as arousal, though it wasn’t that simple.  It was more than arousal he felt. It was the need to utterly consume John and hold him against his heart as a balm for what was to come.  He pulled his own coat off, kicked off his shoes, and pulled John’s shirt over his head all in rapid succession, and John looked dumbfounded by this turn of events.

“Sherlock, what are we doing?” There was no mistaking that John wanted this.  Pupils dilated, breathing rapid, cheeks flushed. If he would only shut up.

“John, tomorrow-” Sherlock stopped himself.  John needed some reassurance, or he would just keep talking, and Sherlock only had hours (damn Moriarty, only hours not days months years) to memorize every new aspect of John he could possibly uncover.

“Tomorrow,” he began again, “Everyone will think I’m a fake, a criminal, and…” he trailed off.  He never cared what people thought before, and John was looking at him with a bewildered stare, like he had never seen him before.  Lie better. “I’m afraid of what might happen.”  That was it- always lie by telling the truth. John must have seen it in his face- that truth- for his gaze softened, and he caressed Sherlock’s face softly, tenderly, and Sherlock fairly melted into the mattress.

“Who cares what they think? You are not those things, and you and I both know it, and that's all that matters. It will be fine, Sherlock, we’ll fix it tomorrow,” John soothed, brow furrowed in concern. Then he was moving in, entwining his legs with Sherlock’s, and Sherlock sighed into his mouth as he felt them press together from toe to crown, foreheads bumping together as John moved as close to him as possible. John’s mouth was devouring his now, hands framing his face, and he had never been kissed like this. Like he mattered, was loved, was precious and important.  His heart was racing, his hands flying equally as fast over the skin on John’s bare back, desperately trying to touch each part of him before trailing down to skim the top of the denim John still wore.  

John pulled back just long enough to unbutton his own jeans, and Sherlock took the opportunity to shakily pull his shirt over his head.  

“So, this is just because you’re afraid?  I suppose this reaction is better than the last time. I'd rather you kiss me than insult me,” John said, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

This was the moment. Don’t be a coward. John would let it go, would just go along with whatever Sherlock wanted, as easy as breathing, because that's what John always did. He let Sherlock take the easy way out too often, and now, when it mattered, he would do the same. They would have sex tonight, and Sherlock would bite his tongue against the words, and John would never know the depth of feeling Sherlock held for him. But that is not why he came here.  That is not what he will risk everything for, tomorrow.  And that is not the memory of himself he wants to leave for John.

“John,” Sherlock began, “tonight, when you doubted me, it felt worse than anything Moriarty could have said.  Turning you against me-that would burn the heart out of me.”

“I thought you didn’t have one,” John said, softening his words with a kiss.

“I was wrong,” Sherlock said, breath mixing with John’s, before he leaned back in to continue the kiss, pulling John on top of him.

“Well, now I’m sure to always remember tonight. This,” a kiss to Sherlock’s lips, “ and admitting you were wrong. What has gotten into you?” John teased lightly, concern still showing in his features.  His fingers were trailing up and down Sherlock’s sides, and it was distracting at best, and wonderfully arousing at worst.

“John,” Sherlock said, and his serious tone made John stop.  Their eyes met, and Sherlock said softly, “I...care for you-” No, that’s not it. Say it, you coward! - “I have a heart, John, and it’s yours, if you will have it,” Sherlock finished, looking John in the eyes, hoping he could see the utter truth there, and hoping he would remember this moment tomorrow, when Sherlock was surely going to lie to his face (in all but 2 scenarios), maybe even about this.

“Sherlock,” John said softly, “of course.” But confusion and fear were again showing in his eyes.  He knows something is wrong, Sherlock thought to himself, Why does he have to be so observant now? He let himself get carried away with sentiment. Time to distract.  Sherlock brought his lips to John’s again, holding John’s face against his while they kissed, even though he felt John trying to slow down the kiss, to pull away.

“Are you going to let me talk or just keep trying to distract me with kissing, hm? Sherlock-” John was breathing heavily now, and his brow was furrowed again, and, dammit, he wanted to talk so much, Sherlock did not expect this.

“Please, John, can we talk in the morning?  Tonight, I just want to…” He trailed off as John’s eyes widened in surprise, and to further the point, brought his hands down to cup John’s ass, pulling him down to lay flush with Sherlock’s body.

“Oh, Christ,” John groaned, as their erections came into contact. “Fine, but we are absolutely talking in the morning, and you’re going to answer any questions I have, including what sort of mental breakdown you’ve had tonight.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, because he, in fact, would not talk to John in the morning. Except for 7 scenarios, where he would talk to John in the morning, and say things that John would not want to hear.  Scenarios where he would burn his own heart out himself, before he let Moriarty touch John.  And wasn’t that what this was all about, really?  Proving that if anyone could control Sherlock- force him to burn- it was himself, dammit. Sherlock would set the world on fire, would burn every inch of his own skin, to save John.  Sentiment, indeed.

And as John leaned in to kiss him again, to grip his arms (and his face and the back of his neck like he couldn’t touch enough of Sherlock’s skin), he finally understood why people allowed this sentiment to rule them in times of despair.  He had known it as a fact, earlier, the same way he knew that Moscow was in Russia and Richard Brooke was James Moriarty and John Watson had a beautifully ugly scar on his shoulder.  But now he understood it first-hand, as John had forced him to understand so many things.  Friendship, love, companionship, lust, adoration (grief, desperation).  Because right now, he felt alive, and he felt good (John touching his chest belly lower lower-), and this was the best thing he’d ever had and he had to give it up in a few hours, and that, he was sure, would be the worst thing that has ever happened to him.  Losing so soon what he had found would be the death of him. A death he chose, and damn Moriarty for forcing his hand, but bless him, bless him, for forcing it towards John (John who felt so sturdy and hard and strong and breakable and soft under his hands). Tomorrow, when he faced Moriarty, he would be sure to shake the man’s hand, to congratulate him for making Sherlock simultaneously discover and break his own heart, and he would be sure to let Moriarty know in no uncertain terms that he had just made Sherlock the most dangerous man he had ever met. For Sherlock was not a particularly kind man, but he was a particularly clever and cruel one. And now he knew- understood- that love truly was the most vicious of motivators. Sherlock was never afraid to be vicious. (John cupping his jaw and kissing lower and lower down down down oh--). And he was very, very motivated.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a one-shot, I imagine Sherlock creeping out, going to Bart's, then a few hours later texting John to come there. Pick up with John coming in, saying, "I got your text."   
> Or you can keep reading to see how I thought sleeping with John and confessing his feelings might change Sherlock's plans.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapters will be in alternating points of view. This is where we go off canon tracks.

James Moriarty knows what people do when they know they’re going to die. He knows they break down, flail against the inevitable (so predictable), and then retreat to comfort.  They withdraw to memories and nostalgia and sentiment. The dirty word. They run, tail between legs, to their bedroom, lock the door and sit on the bed with a gun, waiting to be shot in the head.

Of course, he knows that Sherlock is not “people.” He is not quite ordinary, though he’s not extraordinary, either. There is something about him that plays at it, but Jim will never forget the look on Sherlock’s face when he saw John all wrapped up in Semtex like a gift. And he was a gift, really, John.  The gift being that he had only wrapped John in Semtex and had not done any countless number of things to him.  But at that point, Jim didn’t know what Dr. Watson was. But then, seeing Sherlock’s face- that face had been like a gift in return.  Because now Jim knows how to take him down.  Sherlock, right in that split second, had proved himself to be not-extraordinary.  Not ordinary, either, because Jim doesn’t doubt that the man would have shot that vest and blow them all to bits right there.

Jim had had trouble sorting him, then- ordinary or not?  It was clear that John could be useful, because Sherlock clearly had some kind of heart. It was clear that Sherlock cared about John more than he cared about saving himself.  But he didn’t care so much about John as to not go down with him in the flames. That’s what Sherlock would choose, then. Sherlock would rather fall on the bomb with John Watson in the room than have one of them escape while the other burns. If John Watson is going to die, Sherlock will pull the trigger, then turn the gun on himself.  And wouldn’t that just be so exciting?  Not quite like the fairy tales, but more like Shakespeare.

And as Jim listens to Sherlock pouring his heart out over scratchy audio (and really, Sherlock, so predictable- he found the cameras then stopped looking which was exactly what Jim wanted him to do because he didn’t need cameras when he had microphones) to an audibly confused and fast-breathing John Watson, he is really too disappointed to enjoy it.  So predictable!  So ordinary! Sherlock Holmes, such a let-down!  What is he doing the night everything in his life falls apart?  Confessing his love before it’s too late.  It’s almost embarrassing, Jim thinks.  No, it is embarrassing. He can hear them breathe, and kiss, and moan, the lines of their voices on the screen jumping in a rhythm that is easy to read.  They already sound like they’re dying, together.

“I will do anything to keep you safe, John.”  Jim hears it, Sherlock’s voice ragged and rough (and Jim rolls his eyes).  And he doesn’t hear John’s reply, doesn’t care, because he is thinking and oh, this is so good.  

“Anything, Sherlock?” he whispers. “Let’s find out.”

And he hits “burn.” 


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock thinks he’s going mad. That must be the reason. He’s already broken little bits of his heart and mind away all day. Leaving John in bed (break), going to Bart’s alone and bouncing that rubber ball as he slowly replayed the night over and over (break), texting John as if nothing had happened (break), listening to John’s disappointment and anger when he wouldn’t go to see Mrs. Hudson (break), the lies and “friends protect you” and the loneliness and his chest aching and the stairwell up up up (breakbreakbreak) .  

And now, he can hear John’s voice, hear it as it was last night.  Soft, gentle, breathing so fast and- How is he hearing this? Has he broken his mind? But no, the sound quality is bad. He doesn’t remember John being scratchy and staticky. He narrows his eyes and follows the sound around the corner.  To Moriarty, with a cell phone in his hand, with John’s voice pouring out of the speakers. And Sherlock feels rage rise in him so quickly he literally sees red. Red on Moriarty’s face, down his skull where Sherlock will break him apart.

And Moriarty must see it, because he stops the audio, stands up and says, “Tsk, tsk, Sherlock. I warned you.  You heard me, but you weren’t listening.”

Sherlock is not calm, and before he knows what he’s doing, he has Moriarty by the lapels and is hauling him up to eye level.

“How did you get that?” He doesn’t recognize his own voice.

“There is no secrecy. I own secrecy. Remember? I told you, right there, in your flat. In your chair. And now, I own you.”

And Sherlock drops him, watches as Moriarty calmly straightens his jacket, then turns his attention back to his phone. He swipes a few times, then holds it up.

Sherlock hears himself, panting, moaning ‘John, John,’ over and over (so ordinary of him), but it spikes his heart rate and it flushes his cheeks and he’s angry again, because this was John showing him how much he loves him, kissing him, sucking him, swallowing him so that he was being metabolized by John this very minute, his DNA staying with John even though he himself couldn't. And it was not ordinary when it was happening to him.

“Stop,” he says, voice tight with the memories.  If Moriarty wants to embarrass him, it won’t work, he thinks.  He is not ashamed of anything he did last night.  This morning- the shame of that burns in his gut.

“Oh, but that’s not even my favorite part!” Moriarty seems to be enjoying this, and Sherlock doesn’t want to think about that- whether or not he enjoyed it, listening in last night.  Because Moriarty is twisted and deranged, and what Sherlock and John shared was not. And to have it become something dirty, and be brought out into the light of day, is just wrong and Sherlock is so-

“I will do anything to keep you safe, John.” He hears his voice, he knows he said this after John had come in his hand, fallen apart on top of him so openly, eyes locked and without a single barrier up around his heart, that Sherlock couldn’t help but feel utterly protective and possessive. And he knew what John had said in return (I'm not asking you to keep me safe, Sherlock. You said danger, and I came, remember?) and how it had made his heart swell with pride and love for this ridiculous man. He had let the emotions surround him then, and he knew they would only serve him better when he was faced with Moriarty.  He met John's eyes, let eye contact linger and let his blood fill with endorphins and let his mind fill with JohnJohnJohn.  And he is suddenly so thankful that audio is all Moriarty has, because for someone else to see John like that- Sherlock thinks he would have truly lost his mind.

“So,” Moriarty begins, “Anything.” His tone indicates that he thinks this word is funny, and he punctuates it with an eye roll. “I’m curious. What does anything mean to someone like Sherlock Holmes?”

“Everything.” And even as he said it, even as his mind was racing through all the possibilities and scenarios he and Mycroft had developed and trying to find which ones still fit, which ones could be changed and which ones had to be completely thrown out, he could see that Moriarty didn’t really believe him. He could read it in Moriarty’s eyes- there was surely one thing Sherlock wouldn’t do, and he was counting on it.  Clearly, Moriarty thought he was ordinary, like everyone else, and an ordinary person would do anything to protect the ones they love, would throw themselves on the sword.  An ordinary person would sacrifice themselves to protect the ones they love.  That’s what Sherlock was prepared to do, last night, when he was ordinary.

But that was before he understood what it meant to love, to be loved so deeply by someone so brave and dangerous and not ordinary. Before he understood what extraordinary really was, what it really meant. Before he knew what it was to truly entrust yourself to someone else the way John entrusted himself to Sherlock.  To give your own heart away, willingly, knowing that it may never be returned to you.  Knowing that it may be broken and burned, and not caring to stop it. And to receive a heart in turn, to be trusted so exquisitely with the care of another person. Sherlock knew, now, that to die or “die” or any permutation of that idiotic plan would be to kill John as surely as John’s death would kill him.

There was only one thing left to do.  He was a fool to think he could do this without John. Moriarty wanted to see what he would do?  He would burn them both- burn them all.

In his pocket, he texted four letters to Mycroft. And smiled. 


	4. Chapter 4

John knows what Sherlock is capable of doing.  He knows what kind of man Sherlock is, and he certainly knows what kind of man he isn’t.  And he accepts it all.  So when Sherlock told him, after he had quite spectacularly fallen apart in the man’s arms, that he would do anything to keep John safe, John believed that. Took it as gospel.

John had said, “I know. I'm not asking you to keep me safe, Sherlock.  You said danger, and I came, remember?”  He did know that Sherlock meant what he said.  He knew what Sherlock would and could do, knew Sherlock’s mind despite how often he claimed to be offended or baffled by the man.  In reality, he knew Sherlock, in every sense of the word. Which is why, after last night, after Sherlock kept making strange declarations, kept looking at him like he would vaporize in the next instant, John took some time to make his own deductions.  Granted, they were slightly disjointed because he was trying to focus on the feel of Sherlock’s body and his hands and mouth.  

But still, John was not as idiotic as most people thought (well, actually, only Sherlock thought he was idiotic).  He knew a few things for certain.  First, that something important had happened, and Sherlock had already decided what to do about it without consulting John.  Second, that that something and that decision was big and important and caused Sherlock to think this was his last time seeing John, which therefore had pushed him into declaring himself when God knows this thing between them could have dragged out until eternity. Perhaps Sherlock forgot, but John knows what it’s like to know you’re going to die.  He knows all about the crushing fear and dread of the next morning, of having to leave your home, your loved ones, never knowing what will happen.  Being deployed. Sherlock was deploying to war tomorrow, and this was his last night.  And John knew what that meant.  

Which is why, after he lives up to his reputation as an idiot and doesn’t see through what is clearly Sherlock sending him away, he feels his stomach drop right out of his body when he sees Mycroft inside 221, standing by the stairs.. Mrs. Hudson is nowhere to be found, but there are several well-dressed men carrying out a black body bag and for a moment John is afraid that it was really true. But then Mycroft pulls him off to the side, and by the grip on his arm, John knows something is wrong. It is the only time he’s observed Mycroft even a little bit flustered, besides when he had confronted him last night, and he feels real fear paralyze him for a moment.

Mycroft very succinctly tells him that Sherlock, any minute now, will be on the roof of St. Bart’s, engaging Moriarty in a play of minds which will end in Sherlock’s faked suicide and going underground. John takes in the tone of Mycroft’s voice- exasperated, like Sherlock is just some child who has throw a tantrum to get his way. He gets the feeling that Mycroft did not particularly like this plan (very dramatic, indeed) but was going along with it anyway. John can’t believe what he is hearing, but it makes sense.  Sherlock’s desperation, looking at John like it was the last time he would ever see him.  It fucking might have been, the bastard.

“But after the events of last night, I thought my brother might try to improvise, which is not his strong suit.”  And the look that Mycroft gives John stops any questions immediately from passing his lips.  Clearly, somehow, Mycroft knows exactly what happened last night, and though John thought it had changed everything and Sherlock apparently thought it changed only some things (making plans by himself without consulting John hadn’t changed one bit), Mycroft seemed to side with John. It changed things enough to encourage Mycroft to intervene on behalf of his brother’s well-being and happiness. And wasn’t that just touching.

Mycroft’s intervention meant, of course, a complete change in the plan and strapping John into a bulletproof vest the likes of which he has never seen, complete with fake blood packs, and sending him out to get shot. In the middle of being strapped in, Mycroft gets a text, checks it, gives a little huff of amusement and a mutter of "really, Sherlock", then types out a quick response before pocketing his phone like nothing has happened. Like this is the most normal thing he's ever done.  But John can see a small furrow in the man's brow, and can't help but feel his adrenaline spike. He wonders what Sherlock has texted Mycroft, and gives the man a questioning look, to which Mycroft responds, "My brother is being overly dramatic, and indeed is trying to improvise. This will probably come as a surprise to him, though, you being there so soon. He only just decided on a plan, so of course he doesn't know that I have removed his choice in the matter. He will undoubtedly piece it together, though." But the furrow remains.

John wonders if Sherlock knows about the plan, which, as Mycroft explained, rests on Sherlock acting like he believes John has been shot. Sherlock is a very good actor, and John has no doubt he can sham with the best of them, but he feels a little worried about the possibility of surprising Sherlock with this. Especially after last night.  If Sherlock really thought John had been shot, there was no telling what he might do.

Because if there is one thing John knows, it is that Sherlock is capable of anything and everything (murder love sex devotion friendship), and that a fake suicide could easily turn real if Sherlock saw it as the only way to save John, or if Sherlock thought there was no more John to save.  John also knows, though, of what he himself is capable (murder love sex devotion friendship).  And living without Sherlock is not one of those things, especially now that he knows what is waiting for them on the other side. So though John is not looking forward to taking a bullet in his (bulletproof) chest, he is very, very motivated to get them out the other side.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock figures he has fifteen, maybe twenty, minutes before John arrives and the match is lit. He has twenty, maybe fifteen, minutes to play with Moriarty. Now that he has made up his mind, is no longer second-guessing himself every step of the way, he can see the situation with clarity again. He no longer sees red when he looks at Moriarty.  Instead, he sees someone who doesn’t understand what is about to happen. Someone who has read the situation all wrong and will pay dearly. Someone who has nothing to live for, not like Sherlock does.  He must let him keep thinking that he has Sherlock. Must get him to talk until he sees John’s small figure step out of a cab on the street below. And then, Sherlock will surprise Moriarty and show him just exactly what he will do for John Watson.

But Moriarty speaks first, a flicker of surprise in his voice, "Ah, there's your little pet now.  Call for reinforcements, Sherlock? You really shouldn't have."

And Sherlock's mind wipes. _How is John here? Did Mycroft not get his text? Oh God, why is John here? There was not enough time!_

All of a sudden, Moriarty is directly behind him, whispering into his ear, "I do hate to be outnumbered, Sherlock. Not fair. If he comes toward the building, he will die."

Sherlock feels his legs carry him all the way to the ledge. Shouts John's name from the rooftop, clearly expecting the man to hear him.  He sees John looking all around, before pulling out his cell phone.  Sherlock feels his own phone vibrate in his pocket, and looks to Moriarty.

"Please," Moriarty says, inclining his head in a gesture of permission, all faked politeness and gentility.  Sherlock answers his phone.

"John, stop, stay right where you are. Don't come any closer, do you understand?" He cannot impart enough authority into his voice because it is shaking.

"Sherlock, where are you? What's going on?" John stops. Looks around again. Sherlock looks, too, trying to spot the snipers he knows are positioned around them. He remembers the pool.

"I'm on the roof, John. Look up." And there, he has gotten some control over his voice now that John has stopped. His mind races, thinking of how he can send John away from here.  He can really only think of one strategy, the one he uses on everyone to get them to keep their distance. Insults, threats, cold, calculating deductions. He feels his throat close at the thought of doing that now, to John.  He will break both their hearts to keep them alive. And just as he begins to speak the words he doesn't mean, John moves.

"Sherlock, I'm coming to help you." A pause. John looks up and looks dead into Sherlock's eyes, from so far away. "Don't be afraid." And Sherlock thinks this is a strange thing to say, before he sees John jog across the street. Sherlock watches in slow-motion, feeling as though his body is frozen. Moriarty is peering over his shoulder, his arm up like a conductor ready to hit the down-beat, his voice too close to Sherlock's ear, "Tsk-tsk, not a good listener, is he?"

"No!" Sherlock feels himself yelling, not even into the phone, just right out into the air, over and over. "John, stop!"

He hears the shots, sees John's body crumple on the asphalt, before his brain can register what has happened. It's the like breath has been punched out of his lungs, squeezed out of him, like he himself has been shot through the heart. He can't breathe. He can only watch as a red stream flows from John's body, staining the street.  He turns on Moriarty, who still has his arm in the air and has a confused look on his face, and with a deadly clarity of mind, grabs the man by the throat.

"I...It wasn't me," Moriarty gasps. Sherlock doesn't care. Moriarty scrabbles at him, but Sherlock's arms are long and Moriarty can't reach. He chokes him with both hands until the man's face is bright red and most of the fight has gone out of him. He uses one arm to keep holding the man by the throat, and the other to reach into his jacket.  He pulls out the gun, had seen the outline of it earlier. So much for fair.  He drops Moriarty, then, as the man tries to crawl away, tries to say something no doubt offensive, he shoots him in the back. He collapses, but is still breathing, rough and gasping, so Sherlock rolls his body over, looks him dead in the eye, thinks to himself _everything_ and puts a bullet in his brain. Then, just to be sure, he shoots once more. And then again, chest this time. He can't control himself, and before he realizes what's happened, he has emptied the entire clip into what's left of Moriarty. He feels the satisfaction of finally seeing red, but it is short lived, because the color only reminds him of what is on the street below. Once the trigger clicks, barrel empty, Sherlock feels himself hollow out. He drops the gun, not bothering to wipe his prints. Moriarty, dead in under two minutes, why didn't he just do this before? Why did he ever care about the game, the drama of it all? Yes, he shot a man in the back, not much honor in it, but does it really matter, in the end? Does anything really matter, when John's blood is spilling out of his body onto the street?

He thinks maybe he should have saved a bullet.

He runs to the ledge, because the quickest way to John now is to jump. He scans the ground for the body of the man he loves, but already there is an ambulance, loading him into the back. Sherlock sees the red on the ground, the blood short-circuiting his brain. But logic comes out of the blankness of his mind- how is there an ambulance already? Adrenaline made time slow, but in reality he knows no more than two minutes have passed since John was shot. Why is there even a need for one, when they are 50 feet from a hospital? Then, as he watches them drive away with John's body, he feels the panic return.  Why are they taking him away?  Why is there so much blood?  Where are they taking John? Where the hell is Mycroft?

He doesn't know what to do anymore, just wants to let it all crash down around him, wants to let himself burn here on this roof. But it doesn't feel like heat. It feels like ice, like dry ice, burning him from the inside. He knows he is a mess, knows he has just killed a man, rather brutally, and he doesn't care.

_Where the hell is Mycroft?_

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

When Mycroft sees his brother on the rooftop, he knows for certain that he made a mistake.  His plan, of course, went exactly as predicted. Sherlock, after watching John get shot by what he thought was Moriarty's men, went mad with bloodlust and killed Moriarty. It worked perfectly. The result is just what Mycroft had planned for, because he could count on Sherlock to always react predictably. This thing with the villains and heroes _(fairy tales, how childish)_ , it was getting old, and Mycroft needed Moriarty out of the way so he could deal with more pressing matters. He was only a little sorry for manipulating his brother so, but he knew that Sherlock would figure it out shortly after killing the man.

Because he had left Sherlock several clues that this all wasn't real- namely, the amount of blood that had poured out of the hidden pack underneath John's vest. He had loaded it up with as much as possible, hoping that Sherlock, once he had calmed, would see that and know something was wrong. The second clue, because Mycroft thought maybe Sherlock might be excused missing that first one, was the ambulance. Why would an ambulance come to take a man to the hospital right in front of him? It wouldn't, so Sherlock would have to deduce that, in the end, it wasn't real.

Except, the timeline seemed to be a little slower than he had anticipated. By now, he had expected Sherlock to have figured out what had happened and be demanding to see John and get Moriarty's body disposed of properly.

But when Mycroft sees his brother on the rooftop, he knows for certain that he miscalculated. How could he know how sentiment-love-would affect his brother? He had no data. He had thought there was a small chance that this would happen, and he had come to the rooftop himself as soon as the scene had been cleared just in case. Sherlock, if distraught, would listen only to him.

Apparently, John Watson had the power to break his brother, and Mycroft had just wielded it, purposefully and carelessly (not carelessly, though, because everything was planned and timed and it went perfectly).

Sherlock looks wrecked- his clothes, skin, face are all spattered with blood from having shot Moriarty repeatedly at such close range, and the blood on his face is smeared with tears that Sherlock is not trying to hide as he lifts his head up to look at his brother.

"What did you do?" Sherlock screams at him, rising unsteadily from his position on the edge of the building. He is standing in Mycroft's space now, and snarling in his brother's face. Mycroft takes a step back. "What did you do, Mycroft, my God, what did you do! You let him die! Oh, God! You- You let him die!"

"Sherlock," Mycroft tries, hands up in a placating gesture, but he is so shocked that Sherlock hasn't figured it out his voice comes out as barely a whisper. "Sherlock," he says again, voice stronger, "Listen to me. John is alive. It was a trick. Just a magic trick." He tries to impart kindness and authority into his voice, to end Sherlock's agony.

He watches, stunned, as his brother drops to his knees in front of him. He can feel himself gaping, not bothering to try to hide his shock. _What have I done?_

"What?" Sherlock says, voice broken. It reminds Mycroft of a time when Sherlock was young and innocent, and Mycroft was not an arch-enemy but an idolised brother. Sherlock is looking at him with unguarded hope in his eyes, and Mycroft is so glad that he can affirm that hope.

"John is alive. I...improvised. Your plan was too risky, and I couldn’t control all the variables. ‘Burn’? What was I supposed to do, Sherlock? That was not your choice to make alone, and John would have been devastated." Mycroft says. Despite not indulging (rarely indulging), Mycroft does know about love, the dreaded emotion. He knows what Sherlock was going to do would inevitably ruin both his brother and the only friend he had managed to make in over thirty years. That was not a long-term risk that Mycroft was willing to take.

Then he adds, incredulously, "I thought you would see- too much blood, Sherlock.  There's at least four pints of it there, on the ground. Really, Sherlock. Four pints from one shot in the chest? And an ambulance? We're standing on top of a hospital.  I thought I was being obvious."

He can see Sherlock replaying it in his mind, can see the veil of loss and grief drop from his eyes, and feels like he can finally take a deep breath. He and Sherlock were always able to communicate through deductions, one-upping each other and trying to stump each other with ever more complicated puzzles. It was their own language, and it was special to them, and Mycroft feels no victory in having finally succeeded in fooling Sherlock.

He watches his brother put his face in his hands, and watches his shoulders shake with sobs, and feels the urge to pull him in close. Instead, he puts his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, steady and heavy, hoping the weight will ground him.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry. I didn't think-"

"Didn't think I would react poorly to watching John get shot?" Sherlock asks, visibly getting himself under control. Mycroft can see the moment he returns to himself, can feel it in the tensing of Sherlock's shoulder. He takes his hand away.

"No, I was counting on you reacting poorly."

And now, Sherlock looks shocked, and betrayed. His eyes widen, and he is still shaking, though that must be from the adrenaline crash. He rises to his full height, and looks Mycroft dead in the eyes.  "You wanted me to think he was dead."

Mycroft meets his brother’s glare. He owes him this much. "Yes. Just long enough to encourage you to end this." He gestures at the blood on the ground where Moriarty's body used to be. His men had come in to clean it up, quickly and efficiently, the same way they had dealt with all of Moriarty’s assassins. "Really, Sherlock. Did you need to use the entire clip? Such a mess. It will be--" Mycroft cuts off abruptly.

Sherlock is looking at him like he's never seen him before, doesn’t know him. "You used me. You used John. Where is he?  Where is John!" And now Sherlock has him by the shoulders and is shaking him, hard. Two men in black come over and grab his brother, pry him off, while Mycroft takes a deep, shaky breath. Sherlock has **never** laid a hand on him in anger before.

"John is not your pawn. He is not a play-thing. He is not disposable and--" Mycroft hears a catch in his brother's voice, and he thinks he might be about to cry again.  "You're no different from Moriarty, using John to get to me. To make me dance for you. I'm done, Mycroft. Do you hear me? Done! You will take me to him. And then, you will never, ever, contact us again." He shakes loose from the men holding him back, and without looking at anyone, walks through the doors into the hospital.

As Mycroft watches his brother leave, he knows he has made a mistake. He knows, now, that Sherlock will do anything and everything for that man, including sacrifice a part of himself he had created to stay safe and protected in this world that was so often terribly cruel to someone as special as Sherlock. Mycroft knew his little brother was not a sociopath, and was capable of feeling very strongly. And now, it seemed as though Sherlock finally knew and accepted that about himself.  And though Mycroft has no doubt that it will take a long time to repair the damage he has done to their relationship, he can't help but feel a deep happiness. He feels like an incredible burden has been lifted off his shoulders. Even if he did honor Sherlock's request and never talk to him again, which he won't, he would still feel this lightness. Even if they don't reconcile for twenty, thirty years, he can't stop the feeling of deep happiness from spreading through his chest.  Because, for once, he truly believes that his brother will be around for twenty, thirty, more years. Finally, Sherlock has found something worth living for. 


	7. Chapter 7

John knows that he is going to have a huge fucking bruise on his chest. Bulletproof vest or not, that was **not** fun. He also knows that the hardest part of it all was looking up into Sherlock’s eyes, hearing the desperation in his voice, and knowing that Sherlock had no clue. He would get shot a dozen times, with no vest, to save Sherlock. He knows it, he knows Sherlock knows it. Knows Sherlock would do the same for him.

So when he falls, real pain spreading through his chest and making him gasp and fight against himself not to grab at the vest to see if has really been shot, he is momentarily disoriented by it all. It feels very real to him in the moment, Sherlock’s panic, his own panic, the feeling of being hit with a bullet and the wetness spreading through his clothes and pooling under him. It was more like a water balloon popping, though, than blood pumping out of him, and that was reassuring. It was enough to pull him out of the pain. He listens instead for Sherlock, for any clue as to what is now happening on the roof. There is dead silence, only the sound of his own ragged breathing as he tries to keep his chest from moving. Then he hears Sherlock screaming. Screaming his name, in a voice so raw and real that John feels an answering pain deep inside him. He has to fight against the urge to stand up, wave his arms and let Sherlock know that this was all a trick, a cruel, necessary trick. It takes all the strength he has to lay still on the ground.

He hears an ambulance pull up next to him, between him and the building- doesn't hear the sirens because there aren't any. Hears the door open. Then he hears gunshots. One- a pause. Two- a shorter pause. Three-four, five, six-seven-eight-nine, ten. Silence. John feels his heart stutter- Sherlock did not have a gun on him, did he? He hardly ever carried one- that was John’s job. He is being lifted onto a stretcher now, hears “stay still” whispered in his ear by the paramedic (Mycroft’s) and desperately wants to open his eyes to look on the roof for Sherlock. He knows, though, that he must play dead, in case there are others watching. He hopes Mycroft can get to the roof quickly.

He hopes Sherlock had a gun.

Once he’s in the ambulance, they strip his shirt and remove the vest. John sees a shiny bit embedded deep in the black material. His hand reaches up to touch his bare chest and he flinches from the pain. There is a nasty bruise forming already, the size of his fist, and he is having trouble taking a deep breath. The woman sitting next to him feels his ribs and John gives a shout of pain.

“Broken rib, right 5,” she says to one of the men who lifted him onto the stretcher. He knew this was a possibility- probable, actually. They shot him with a low-caliber gun, but a bullet is a bullet, right? It had to be as real as possible, Mycroft insisted. They had no idea how many witnesses Moriarty had planted. The woman starts wrapping him while the man starts an IV in his left arm and hooks him up to something that quickly floods his system and lessens the pain.

They are moving quickly and efficiently, wrapping his chest, but John is not making it easy for them. He thinks he might be in shock, actually. He cannot seem to stop himself from saying Sherlock's name. Somehow, he knows that he is not cooperating, but he also knows that he cannot possibly lay here while Sherlock might be dying on a rooftop. Foolishly, he tries to sit up, and they shove him back down. He had not anticipated reacting so poorly to this, but then, he had not anticipated hearing those gunshots. This was supposed to **save** Sherlock's life.

What if the last thing he said to Sherlock, before the call, had been to call him a machine? When he knows that Sherlock is anything but. When he knows, first-hand, how much Sherlock is capable of feeling, how **human** he really is. When he is, really, the only one who knows. How could he have said that? He tries again to sit up, but this time, his muscles don't obey.

He knows he’s not going to any hospital, knows he doesn’t really need to once he gets himself wrapped up. He knows they’re going to a safe-house, where Sherlock will be brought once the scene is cleared. He feels like days and days have passed, but the reality is that it has only been a few hours since everything has changed. He has to believe that Sherlock will be there, waiting for him. He has to.

John feels sleep tug at him, and he tries to fight it, tries to tell them to take out the IV so he can be awake to see Sherlock, but it grips him and takes him under, and his last thought is the sound of Sherlock's scream echoing in his ears, and of gunfire.

******

When Sherlock sees John, bare-chested except for the wrap winding from under his arms to the bottom of his ribs, and awake, he feels like the oxygen he has been breathing finally reaches his bloodstream. He rushes to the bedside as John reaches out for him. He is afraid to touch, knows that John has a broken rib, can see bruising blooming out from under the wraps. But John doesn't seem to care, and grabs Sherlock's arm, pulling him down until they are hugging, Sherlock's face tucked into John's neck. Sherlock takes a deep breath, feels his world realign, feels instantly relieved and grateful and so, so happy that this is how everything worked out. Seeing John, alive and well and still wanting him. It's more than he could have ever hoped for, and it softens him towards Mycroft, who is standing in the other room pretending not eavesdrop.

Sherlock breaks away from John's hold, and pushes at him with his shoulder.

"Move over," he says and John looks at him incredulously.

"Sherlock, I have a broken rib. I can't move over!"

"Fine," Sherlock sighs. He just needs to be close. He lays on the bed regardless, curling his form around John in the spaces he has left on the bed. He can hear Mycroft sigh from the hallway, but he doesn't care how ridiculous it looks. John is alive, Sherlock is alive, Moriarty is dead- things could not have worked out any better. Now that he has proof that John is alive, now that John is warm and awake and lying in bed with him, he is more inclined to see the logic and necessity of the situation, and to see the enormous favor Mycroft has done him.

"Sherlock," John begins, sounding soft and vulnerable, "What were you thinking? Were you really going to leave?"

Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment. Maybe things weren't so perfect. He cannot bear to lie to John now, though. Not after what John has done for him.  For **them**. So they could stay together, in London, safely. John deserves everything from Sherlock, least of all the truth.

"I was," he says. He feels John sag next to him at the same time he feels John's hand come up to cradle his head, as if to prevent him from leaving. It feels safe and possessive and he likes it. He hears the door shut discreetly, shutting out the voices in the hallway and leaving them alone in a stranger's house on the outskirts of London.

"What were you thinking? Didn't you know I would help you? Sherlock, I would follow you straight to into the fires of hell, you know I would. You had to have known that, after last night."

"Yes, John. I knew. I know." And, Sherlock thinks to himself, it is a heavy weight to carry, the weight of your life.

"So, why didn't you let me help you?"

"After-" he cuts off, meets John's eyes, doesn't know how to describe what happened and 'last night' doesn't seem to suffice "I changed my mind. I knew that if I died, it would kill you. So, I left, and I lied to make you leave, and I knew that it would be better for me to be alive, even if you hated me, and I had a _plan_ , but then you walked out of that cab, and-"  He can't continue. The panic of that moment is still too fresh, and it chokes his voice. He has only felt true, paralyzing fear, a handful of times in his life. This was one. He will have nightmares of John, stepping so confidently out of a cab door, walking himself towards death, for years.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry. I tried to give you a clue. I told you not to be afraid. That was as much as I could say. When I heard your voice, I knew that you had no idea, and it killed me to do that to you. I had to lay there, and listen to you scream my name. Christ." John's voice breaks and he pulls Sherlock in tighter as Sherlock wraps his arms around his stomach, carefully.

"I was so afraid for you, Sherlock," John continues, his voice emotional. It's all Sherlock can do not to kiss him now, but they need this out. "They had to sedate me in the ambulance. I heard the shots, and I was so afraid. I'm so sorry."

"It's no more than I was prepared to do to you. I was going to make you watch me jump from the roof. You were going to be my witness. So don't apologize. I understand. It would seem that emotions, _love_ ," he rolls his eyes at himself, can't help it, "makes one do strange things. I should have seen today, I **did** see, but I did not observe. All I saw was you, John, dead on the pavement, and my life empty before my eyes. It was foolish of me, but there you have it. I have done many foolish things in my life. But none so terrible as to think I could give you up."

Sherlock props himself up now, and leans over to kiss John. John's inhale sounds like relief and joy and then he is returning the kiss and changing it into something stronger. Sherlock thinks that they might not be done talking, he hasn't told John everything that transpired on the roof, about the recordings, but he is feeling a heady rush of chemicals flooding his system. At best, he thought it would be months before he could be this close to John again. He was either going to have faked his death, broken John's heart, or, in his improvised plan, shot John in the chest himself (with the vest, of course). He feels giddy that none of these scenarios played out. He feels guilty for having been so angry with Mycroft. It may not have been right, but the ends justify the means. He will talk to his brother more, later. Surely, any means that allow _this_ , that put John in his arms, are acceptable.

For now, though, John is shifting, despite the pain that Sherlock can clearly read in the lines of his face, and John is laying mostly on his uninjured left side, while Sherlock is facing him. They continue to kiss, closed eyes and open mouths, for some time, before Sherlock cannot help himself and lets his right hand wander, while his left is trapped under his own body. He trails his fingers gently down John's arms, across his back, over his abdomen, where they come to rest, hooked just inside the waistband of his trousers.

He sees John cast a wary glance at the door, then at Sherlock, before removing Sherlock’s hand, taking it in his, and laying them on the bed between their bodies..

"I'm not sure this is the right time. Your brother is just the other side of that door." But John is smiling.

"You might say it was dangerous," Sherlock replies. John just smiles wider.

"Foolish," John agrees, leaning in and releasing Sherlock's hand.

Of course, John's right, and it would be foolish to get carried away, Sherlock thinks. It would be foolish to roll on top of John, to take John's face between his hands and kiss him as if he was all that mattered in this world. It would be foolish to press himself into John, to feel his entire body alive and _hard_ underneath him. It would be beyond foolish to undo both their flies, and take them both into his hand and kiss and touch and move until neither one of them could breathe properly. It would be ridiculously foolish to promise forever to a man who takes bullets in his chest and to another who tries to jump off buildings.

Sherlock is foolish, though. He is a ridiculous, foolish man, and he is ridiculously in love with John Watson, an equally foolish man. And, Sherlock thinks, it's strange what desire will make foolish people do.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! The title comes from the song "Wicked Game" by Chris Isaak.  
> My Spotify Sherlock playlist is at: http://open.spotify.com/user/brit2612/playlist/1X7Mk3xCKaeMcg6GdTqluX  
> Many of my pieces are inspired by songs I have on this list. Feel free to have a listen!
> 
> Comments are appreciated!


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